


Remembrance Day

by Andersaur



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Almost the whole of the last chapter is smut, Dating, Frottage, M/M, Poor John's a bit sad, Remembrance Day, Smut, lots of running
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-01 02:49:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andersaur/pseuds/Andersaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock takes John to a Remembrance Day service.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Service

**Author's Note:**

> This is set about a year after John and Sherlock meet and a month before series 2 begins. My heart goes out to all those who lost their lives for all of us.

**Sunday 13 th November, 2011.**

Sherlock was in his pyjamas and sprawled back across the sofa, the latest issue of _Heat_ held far too close to his face. John was due downstairs any minute (he’d made sure of that with the volume at which he’d made his tea) and he really wanted to know how this lady had managed to figure out that she had a secret twin when she didn’t know about the noses in those photographs. John laughed at him for reading women’s gossip magazines but they really did give a fantastically detailed insight into how the minds of normal people ticked. He found it helped him to know how much to expect from John, because, from his experience, John was rather like a gossiping woman in his deductive skills – not that he’d ever tell him that.

He blindly put out a hand and patted around the coffee table until he managed to find his mug. His tea was just reaching the unpleasant side of lukewarm, so he drank down the last third in three big gulps and returned it to the table. John would, hopefully, see the empty mug and offer him a refill. He usually did, anyway.

Sherlock had three lines of his article left to read by the time he heard the muffled thuds of John’s feet on the stairs, but he deliberately paused and took his time. He practically lived for those moments when he heard John’s—ah, there it was, coming up right on cue:

“Bloody hell, Sherlock. Not that shit again.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth perked into a little knowing smile. He allowed himself a tiny grin, hidden behind the magazine, and then wiped it off before lowering the article to his chest. He peered over to John, taking in his clothes (meticulously ironed and plucked about to his own satisfaction, as usual) and his hair (not particularly styled, but there were clearly attempts at neatening it up a bit) before picking the magazine up again.

“It’s much better than the stuff you read in the papers,” Sherlock commented easily. John had stopped off in the kitchen to fill the kettle but, sadly, only gotten out one mug. “I’ll have a cup, too, please.”

John got out another. “At least the stuff I read is factual,” he pointed out, pulling the sugar over as he waited for the kettle to boil.

Sherlock hummed dubiously but kept his next comments to himself. Nobody else on the whole planet seemed to realise the magnitude of how much the newspapers really got wrong or, sometimes, just plain lied about. It was endlessly frustrating but he’d given up having this argument with John a long while ago. After finishing off his reading he flicked through the rest of the articles with disinterest (falling in love with a man twice her age, inspirational story on how she overcame domestic abuse, competition for a free holiday in Prague) and tossed the magazine over his head. He laced his fingers together behind his head and closed his eyes, a deep sigh blown over his chest. He’d been up for hours now, and although he wasn’t tired he always appreciated time to rest his eyes – and wait for tea.

John replaced his cold mug with a hot one, placing the cold in the sink before taking his own from the side. Sherlock left it to cool for a few more minutes, remaining still and quiet on the sofa. He heard John blowing out a noisy breath as he looked through the stack of those damned newspapers on the table. When he found the one he wanted there was a tell-tale rustling of cloth on cloth as he sat down in his chair. People were so noisy.

It was obvious that he was thinking about what day it was. Sherlock was thinking about it, too. They both had poppies on the coats hanging off the door, John’s a silver badge pinned to his lapel and Sherlock’s a paper one stuck through his matching red buttonhole. He made a point to get a new one every year, usually spending all the change he had on his person. John ended up buying a new one each year, too, but it was mostly because he always misplaced his previous ones.

“It’s Remembrance Day,” Sherlock said after a long bout of comfortable silence. His tea was half gone but John hadn’t seen him move once.

“Yep,” John said, though his tone was much lighter than the expression on his face. “It is.”

The silence crept back between them. John wasn’t sure whether to be thankful or not; he was pleased at not having Sherlock’s sympathy, because although he’d been a veteran himself, he, personally, felt like it was stealing thunder to make the day about the present. It was a day to respect and honour the past. His own past wasn’t a part of it.

He was focusing on that when he realised Sherlock was staring at him. He looked up and cocked an eyebrow, wondering if maybe he was supposed to have said something else. “What about it?”

Sherlock watched him for a few seconds, one eye narrowing slightly in thought. The hands moved from behind his head and he sat up, running his hands through his hair, still quiet as he finally settled them in his lap. Eventually, he said, “I wondered if you’d want to go to a service. There’s one at Regent’s Park that starts at half ten.”

“Oh.” John paused, suddenly feeling a ball of some sort of emotion swell up in his chest. He glanced up at Sherlock, smiling just a little bit. “Yes, I think so. That’d be nice. Thanks.”

Sherlock licked his lips and then his teeth behind his lips, apparently slightly uncomfortable with the warm gratitude John was showing in the tiny little gesture. He nodded once, firmly, to himself, and then again at John. “Okay. Good.”

He sat still for another two seconds and then sprang off the sofa, dressing gown billowing out behind him. His attention turned to the cupboards for a moment before he marched back in, collected his tea, and then marched right back out again. John smiled to himself as he heard the crockery clink and some cutlery clatter from behind. He hadn’t read a word since Sherlock had made his offer, but he was finding it very funny to watch Sherlock get so flustered over something as normal as saying thanks.

The better part of the next hour passed without a word between them, but it went that way sometimes. Today Sherlock seemed to be turning all the cupboards out in search of something, and John wasn’t really in the mood for a chat, but he was keeping a close eye on the time. Regent’s Park was just a short walk away but he wanted to be there in good time and it was already ten o’clock.

He took a deep breath as he stared down at his watch: he hadn’t actually been to a Remembrance Day service since he’d gotten home. It was one of his most shameful secrets. To others, perhaps it wouldn’t have come across as disrespectful, but he felt he had an obligation to attend. He simply hadn’t been able to, whether it had been because he hadn’t wanted to go on his own or he’d not even gotten over his own battles. This year, though, he was going, and he was going with Sherlock.

“Hey,” he called over his shoulder, dropping his paper in his lap. “It’s ten o’clock, I think you need to put some clothes on.”

He’d expected a lame retort about already _having_ clothes on, John, or only needing _one more minute_ , John, but all he got from Sherlock was a grunt of acknowledgement. He watched him to make sure he’d heard correctly, and Sherlock did indeed put down the stack of plates he was holding and slink off to his room. John raised his eyebrows, sat back, and took a sip of his tea to keep himself grounded. If this was the only day of the year he was going to get even slightly tip-toed around by Sherlock Holmes, he was bloody well going to enjoy it.

He folded his paper, dropped it on the top of the paper pile, and got up with his empty mug. In the many minutes he had while Sherlock was getting dressed he washed up all the mugs and put the crockery back in the cupboards. Then he checked the time again and ran upstairs to switch his bulky jumper for a cardigan that would fit under his coat. He buttoned it halfway up his torso and then straightened his collar in the mirror. One last sensible flick of his hair and he was going back downstairs, sliding his shoes on and wondering how Sherlock had managed to be ready before him.

“Here,” John said, lifting their coats of the hook and tossing Sherlock’s over to him. Sherlock caught it with one hand and laid it across his lap, busy with his phone. John shrugged his own on and patted each pocket on his person, double-checking that he had everything he needed for their trip out.

Sherlock materialised behind him as soon as he was finished, and, after giving John a second to jump and curse under his breath, he stepped past and pulled the door open to lead the way downstairs. John, jacket zipped all the way up and hands shoved deep into pockets, still shivered gently when the door opened and a draft of freezing cold November air wafted directly into their faces. No matter how many times he was greeted with that same winter chill he never quite seemed to get used to it.

“At least the rain has stopped, I suppose,” he mentioned as he stepped outside. Sherlock hummed gently in agreement. “Have you got your poppy on?”

“Of course,” he replied, pulling his lapel out for John to see.

John nodded. “Just checking.” He put a hand up and stroked over his own with the pad of his index finger to ensure his pin was still in place. He’d checked it a few times already, but once more wouldn’t hurt.

“You haven’t been to one of these in a while,” Sherlock observed with a sidelong glance at John. _Tread carefully,_ he reminded himself. “How long?”

John smiled an incredibly plastic smile as he cleared his throat. “I went the year before last,” he lied smoothly, looking down at his feet. “I think last year we had a case. You didn’t know what day it was for about four days. The year before that I went, though.”

Sherlock didn’t really know what to say to that. John was lying, that much was obvious. He felt like it was his duty, perhaps, as a soldier, to honour their fallen heroes, his duty more than it was anybody else’s because that was how John thought sometimes. Even if he did need a reason to have missed it, he’d have had one, because if Sherlock was correct in his calculations (he’d never asked) John would only have been in his first or second month home in November two years ago. Sherlock wasn’t an idiot; he knew John had been depressed. Not for conventional reasons, perhaps, but he had been, and that was all that was important. He’d have been lonely and depressed and just invalided home from Afghanistan – who _would_ have been able to attend a Remembrance Day service in that condition?

Sherlock very nearly blurted all of that out. He felt his mouth open, his tongue start moving, and bit down on it. Sometimes people told him he had no idea about human emotions, but he knew for a fact he knew about the human thought process, and John wouldn’t want any of those reminders today. Mouth shut.

“Oh,” he said instead. John knew that he knew, but was mostly just glad he hadn’t said anything. “I haven’t been since… Oh, I don’t know, 2008, maybe. I think I’d lost my poppy, gone to buy another, and simply gotten caught up in it all.”

“I tried to catch it on TV while I was deployed, but the signal was crap and as soon as they’d sorted the wiring out I got called to the hospital.” John shrugged. “Everyone had a poppy on them somewhere, though. Everyone.”

They slipped into a sad silence. Well, the sad was mostly on John’s end, but Sherlock was hardly the best of remedies. He was a cool exterior with a floundering mind, scrabbling around for purchase on a slippery floor, because what the hell was he supposed to say now? Nothing, maybe. Were they supposed to be happy when they turned up for the service, even? God, he wished he remembered more about etiquette for these sorts of things. He counted himself lucky that John didn’t seem to mind the mutual silence.

They reached the park entrance five minutes early, giving them enough time to locate the service and find a programme of sorts. They eventually found a good spot under a big tree to stand and watch from. There was a big service in Regent’s Park this year, though the pair of them had no idea why there were scooters lined up along the edges of each main path. No doubt they’d find out later.

The service started a few minutes late, but nobody seemed to mind. A swarm of people had gathered in those final few minutes and when Sherlock blinked himself from his deducing daydreams about divorces and ex-servicemen he jumped and sauntered back a few steps. Too many people far too close to him. Right then there was a squeak of a microphone, the voice of a middle-aged man calling politely for attention and inviting everyone to join with him in a hymn, and an introduction from a small band under a gazebo nearby. A mass rustling sound echoed through the park as everybody fell silent and opened to the first page of their programmes, and the first chorus of _Abide With Me_ filled Regent’s Park.

Sherlock didn’t sing, but he could hear John humming under his breath. As the service plodded on, with more hymns and a short reading from the bible by a local priest, he noticed John’s face getting steadily less and less respectful and more… well, sad. He just looked sad. He wondered if maybe he wanted to leave now and watch the rest on television, but he was listening intently to every word being said in every speech.

“At the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month the guns fell silent on the Western Front, to bring an end the First World War…”

Sherlock glanced at John and found him with his eyes closed, chewing on the inside of his bottom lip. He stepped in closer, the front of his shoulder against the back of John’s, just the tiniest contact to keep him grounded. This had been an awful idea.

“… May we have such a devotion to justice and freedom that the heroism of all who fought, and still fight, may continue to be remembered in a nation of service and in a world of peace.”

John moved back slightly, resting back more firmly against Sherlock. He sniffed gently and opened his eyes, lifting his chin. The next reader stepped up and started a new poem about a soldier, but all Sherlock could think about was John. He was in two minds; every word the young girl said reminded him of John, and what John had done, but there John himself was, leaning against him, being company for him. They’d never been this close before. His heart fluttered slightly in his chest, and he beat down the entirely inappropriate urge he had to slide his hands around his friend’s waist and rest his cheek on his head. Apparently, friends didn’t do that.

“… It is the Soldier, not the politician, who has given his blood, his body, his life…”

Another word for the service that would have described it rather well would have been ‘excruciating’. It was agony having to watch every flicker of pain across John’s face at each word he could relate to and not be able to do anything about it. He was glad to have the programme right then. After this final paragraph would come the silence, and they could all retreat and cool off.

“… At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them.”

“We will remember them.”

The chorus vibrated amongst the gathering, and then a bugle sounded from somewhere towards the bandstand with the Last Post. Eyes closed and heads dropped, and Sherlock, for once in his life, thought about the compassion and respect that people could show when they tried. He thought about how beautiful humanity could be. Nothing could atone for the horror that the World Wars had been, but, by God, could humanity try. It was beautiful.

John had his hands clasped in front of him and his head dropped, but it was the gentle nudge he did against his own shoulder that brought his attention. Had John just scratched his cheek with that rub, or had he wiped his eyes? Sherlock’s eyes widened, but before he could panic he cocked his head forwards and listened, watched the gentle hitches of breath in his back and shoulders. Yes. He was crying.

Shit.

Sherlock swallowed hard. He looked around for inspiration, but none came immediately. Nobody else seemed to be so affected. There were parents holding children to their bodies, the band staring down at their knees with mournful expressions on their faces, couples holding hands.

Ah. There.

Sherlock lifted his hand from his pocket and pulled at John’s sleeve. John jumped, sniffed, but his hands weren’t gripped too tightly and the one Sherlock wanted fell away with the little tug. Sherlock slipped his hand around John’s cold one and held on tightly, eyes set dead ahead. He hoped his panic wasn’t too visible as John looked at him for a few seconds, clearly in shock. For a brief moment Sherlock was afraid he was going to snatch his hand away and step back, but then he swallowed, gave Sherlock’s hand a grateful squeeze, and lowered his head again.

Sherlock sighed deeply, so relieved that his gesture had been accepted that he felt a bit faint. Perhaps he should have eaten breakfast in the many hours he’d been up.

John’s hand tightened around his, the sudden voice speaking _In Flanders Fields_ startling him, and then didn’t loosen again. Sherlock couldn’t say he wasn’t enjoying himself, really, as every time he felt John’s grip flutter around his own his chest constricted with a strange, rumbling affection. It was at times like this he wished he’d met him sooner. He could have felt all of this a long time ago if he had.

“… If ye break faith with us who die, we shall not sleep, though poppies grow in Flanders Fields.”

John lowered his chin as he took a deep breath. This was the home stretch, he thought, holding tightly onto Sherlock’s hand. It was almost over. There were wreaths to lay, prayers to be said, a grateful farewell speech to hear, and then John could go home and go to bed for a while. That was all he wanted to do.

With a warm embrace around his hand, the rest of the service seemed to pass quickly. A veteran laid one with a salute, an old man neither of them recognised laid one, a couple of child cadets laid one. There was a final hymn and then a goodbye that invited everyone to stay and watch the procession of scooters, but neither John or Sherlock understood any reason for there being scooters at a Remembrance Day service, so they turned around and left, Sherlock still holding John close.

And then John cleared his throat quietly and his hand loosened in Sherlock’s, and Sherlock realised he was trying to say ‘let go of my hand’, so he did. He glanced down as their tiny little point of contact parted, cold air rushing in to replace the soft heat of John’s hand. He shivered and pushed his hand back down into his pocket. John’s closed around his programme and folded it, then folded it again, until it was the neat little rectangle that he tucked into his pocket. Sherlock wondered if he was going to go over it again later, or put it in a drawer in his room, or forget about it and find it in a few months and look back with a fond smile. He hoped that one day John would be able to look back on this day and smile. He hoped it hadn’t made his feelings worse.

The silence was uncomfortable and uneasy on Sherlock’s side, but every time he looked at John he seemed contemplative. He supposed the man had no idea of Sherlock’s metaphorical squirming, but he had to be glad for it. He hated awkward conversations that tried to fill awkward silences. They were worse than the silences themselves.

He considered offering a walk around the shops or a stop at a café but then John would know that something was up, and later on he’d get the piss taken out of him for trying to do something kind. That was always what happened. Today he left it, staring down at the pavement all the way home and growing to accept that he’d probably have this strange yearning in his chest for the rest of his life. It had flared today when he’d taken John’s hand, but he’d get used to it just as he had the softer feeling.

He took John’s coat and hung it on the back of the door with his own. Not surprisingly, John’s first stop was the kettle.

“You want one?” he asked, his voice thick, and he cleared his throat with an embarrassed frown and tried again. “Would you like a cup?”

“Please,” Sherlock said easily. He made his way over to the mirror and checked over his hair, straightened out his collar.

Then he glanced to the left at the few odds and ends on the mantelpiece, trying to notice something he didn’t already know would be there. A dusty photo of someone he didn’t recognise, a piece of evidence in the form of a locket that he’d kept hidden from the police for a favour, and a pink headband. Where did these things come from? He looked across to the right, noticing another photo of someone he didn’t recognise. This time the person was in uniform.

“Who’s this?” he asked, brushing the dust of the little thing and bringing it over for John to see.

“Oh, Jesus,” he breathed, grinning. “Where the hell did you find this?”

“Mantelpiece,” Sherlock said. “Do you know him?”

John nodded. “Mm. He was a friend of mine back in the day. A really good friend. He got shot in the stomach during a raid one day and… You know what, forget it.” He put the photo down with a fake smile, pouring some water into their mugs. “It’s not a nice story.”

“No, tell me,” Sherlock protested, taking the picture and looking at it again. He was in uniform trousers and a beige t-shirt, the bathplug chain of dogtags visible around his neck and under his shirt. “Where did you get this?”

“He told me where he kept his most precious things. If something happens to a soldier, his belongings get sent to his next of kin, meaning parents, siblings, children, whoever’s in his file.” John stirred the teabags slowly. “But he wanted a few things to go to his girlfriend, so he kept them hidden away where nobody would find them and send them to the wrong place. He told me to send the box to an address in Cornwall, but I had a look through after he’d gone and… And I wanted to remember him.” John glanced up, eyebrows raised. “He was a good friend. My last good friend, as it happened.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. John’s tone was very matter-of-fact, but he seemed to be unaware of just how sad he looked. It caused that pained flutter in Sherlock’s chest to rise again, and he took a deep breath, put the photo in John’s pocket, and went to sit in his chair to await his tea. In reflection, he thought maybe he should have asked about the photo later.

“John, what does a heart attack feel like?”

John paused. “Um, it… It’s different for everyone. Why?”

“Curious. Tell me.” Sherlock settled a hand on his chest and tipped his head back, closing his eyes.

John placed a cup of tea next to him. “Are you feeling okay, Sherlock? Does your chest hurt?”

 “I’m fine, John. I just want to know.” Sherlock opened his eyes and scowled at John.

John, after staring at Sherlock for a few seconds just to make sure, backed away and sat down in his own chair. Sherlock’s heart did the clenching flutter again at the concern he saw in his expression.

“For some people it’s just a mild pain or tightening in the chest,” John started, still watching Sherlock closely. “But it can also be severe pains, or a squeezing sensation, or immense pressure over your heart. That comes accompanied by the typical symptoms like shortness of breath, pains in the shoulder, back, stomach, jaw, arm, and nausea, or light-headedness. It’s just generally a whole load of unpleasant things all at once.”

Sherlock thought for a second. Was he feeling any of those things? “What about a fluttering sensation?” he said, cringing. He really couldn’t think of any better words for it, but he hadn’t meant for it to sound so pathetic.

John twitched minutely. “Like, like what, sorry? Say that again.”

“I’ve got a pain in my chest,” Sherlock complained, patting the spot over his heart. “I don’t understand what it is. I get it all the time when I’m around you, it just… Every time you say things, it gets worse, it gets tighter, but then it loosens again, and I see you do something tiny or insignificant and it gets worse again. What’s that?”

“It’s…” John swallowed. He was almost smiling. Sherlock had no idea why. “It’s not a heart attack.”

Sherlock looked across at him, suspicious. “John, what is it?”

John was still reluctant to tell him. “I, um. I get the same thing around you, too, actually. Quite a lot.”

“What? Have I given it to you?” Sherlock asked, panicked. John laughed.

“No, you idiot! It’s not contagious; it’s not even a sickness. It’s just a crush.”

Sherlock’s panic turned into disgust, and then outrage, and then confusion. “It’s a _what?”_

“In my professional opinion, I think you have a crush,” John repeated, raising his eyebrows. He had to try his very best not to burst out laughing again.

“I don’t get crushes, John, don’t be ridiculous.” He almost spat the words. Then he paused. “A crush on whom?”

John couldn’t bring himself to say anything, but his blush and his excitable smile made his thoughts quite clear. The worst part was Sherlock couldn’t even deny it. Well, not very well.

“Preposterous,” he muttered, squirming in his seat.

“Kiss me,” John said suddenly.

Sherlock’s head snapped back up so he could meet John’s eyes. His mouth opened but no noise came out. Had John gone insane?

“Kiss me,” John repeated, more confidently this time. His eyes were wide with excitement and they stayed holding Sherlock’s gaze as he stood from his chair and came over. “Come on. Just try it.”

“Wh-what? What are you—John!” Sherlock was standing before he’d even realised that John had hold of his wrists.

“Please,” John said, his features softening. Just for a second, Sherlock caught a glimpse of the hopeless shell of a man he’d seen at the service earlier and his heart gave that same yearning clench in his chest.

Maybe just to try wouldn’t be so bad. Kissing couldn’t be that hard, he’d done it himself a few times. He’d never kissed because he actually wanted to kiss someone, though. Was that different?

“Okay,” he said, relaxing slightly. John slid his hands down Sherlock’s wrists to lock their fingers together, and it was automatic, almost subconscious, for him to recognise the hard bob of his Adam’s apple and the faint lick of the inside of his lip. He wanted to try it, too.

Sherlock stepped a tad closer, and John shuffled further into him. They were close, really close. He couldn’t help but note that if he puckered his lips and tipped his head a bit, he’d be brushing his lips against John’s forehead. He swallowed down the squeak that threatened to beat its way up out of his throat and tilted his head down, closed his eyes.

John did the opposite, tilting his own head up as he closed his eyes, too. His voice caught in his throat as he felt a warm ghost of breath over his lips – not that he’d have said anything even if he’d been able. There was a mutual pause between them at the last second, but Sherlock didn’t have time to back away because suddenly John’s mouth was on his and it was soft, so soft, and warm, and he was finally get a kiss from someone he’d wanted to get a kiss from.

The gentle flutters in his chest had transformed to pulsing wing beats, hammering him from the inside out. It felt like his heart was going to burst out of his ribcage, but at the same time it was relief from the constant twitching of the past few months.

It was relief, and it was excitement, and it was so utterly and completely right.


	2. The Aftermath

Sherlock hadn’t thought it would ever be possible to make a mind stop. Certainly never _his_ mind. He’d heard of those ridiculous moments before, though, those moments in books where everything just started running so fast that they stopped. He didn’t understand how they worked. How could any mind _stop?_ He’d read about it in magazines and heard it in some films he’d heard John watch with his girlfriends. They described their first kisses as suddenly seeing clarity, knowing exactly what to do and who to do it with.

And he did count this as his first kiss. He paid no attention to technicality. This was the first time he’d kissed someone and enjoyed it not for the satisfaction of knowing he’d achieved it, but simply for what it was; a kiss. His first kiss, with John.

But his mind certainly hadn’t stopped. If anything it had gone faster, and the thousands of buzzing thoughts had turned from their speedy circling into a wild tornado of noise and sensation. He knew he should have preferred the former, because that was much more ordered and easy to handle, and yet… And yet, he preferred the latter. He preferred the unpredictability of the latter, and the amount of John that was in it. He preferred that the ache in his chest was finally easing. He preferred that he was kissing John.

Warm hands slid around Sherlock’s waist, and his grip on John’s wrists loosened to allow it. He stroked up John’s arms, experimenting, as the kiss deepened. John’s lips began to part, and the very tip of his tongue skimmed lightly across Sherlock’s bottom lip. There was no pressure there at all, none for him to open his mouth, too, but he did. He’d only ever done this two, maybe three times before but it felt like John was an expert, and he knew he was a fast learner.

Sherlock eased his hands onto John’s shoulders and then down behind them, pressing until he could feel the muscles near his shoulder blades ripple gently with every stroke his hand made over Sherlock’s lower back. He’d never been this close to John before but he could already tell that he was intoxicating. He was unlike any drug Sherlock had ever known and yet he certainly held all the properties of them; he sent a unique buzz straight through Sherlock’s veins, he had a magnificent effect on his thought process, and he was certainly proving to be addictive. Sherlock couldn’t get his mouth off him, not that John seemed to be complaining.

John, in fact, seemed almost upset when Sherlock’s hands landed hard on his shoulders and shoved him back fiercely. Sherlock stared at him, his expression a comic mock-up of horror and confusion as he looked desperately between John’s eyes, trying to unravel some sort of trick or elaborate ploy. John stared back in confusion and continued to stare as Sherlock glanced down to his crotch, and then back, and then his crotch, and then back again.  
“John!” he cried, fingers digging hard into John’s shoulders. A slow, amused smile was spreading across his face. “John, you’ve given me an erection!”

John glanced down at Sherlock’s crotch and blushed slightly. His own groin had managed to keep itself contained, apparently. “I didn’t mean to. Is that okay?”

“What?” Sherlock snapped, apparently having zoned out briefly. “What?”

John started to look less amused. He took Sherlock’s hands gently. “Sherlock,” he said, trying to coax him back into the real world, “it’s alright. I’m sorry, I… It was an accident. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, okay?”

Sherlock continued to stare at him in search of ulterior motives. He found none, and finally allowed himself to relax slightly, shoulders drooping with relief. Now he was staring at John in awe. Everything was beginning to fall into place: all of the strange pulls in his chest, and the boiling heat in his stomach, and the almost irresistible urge to touch John. It had been yearning. Of course it had.

“Nobody’s given me an erection I haven’t wanted in ten years,” he murmured, rubbing his thumbs over the backs of John’s fingers. “Not one person.”

John didn’t know what to say; his face remained an open book of hope, pride, and affection. Sherlock moved his head forwards and kissed him again, softly, slowly.

“You’re an arsehole, John Watson,” he muttered against his mouth, eyes closed. John’s opened wide and stared up at him.

“Excuse me?”

“You. Are. An arsehole.” Sherlock pecked John’s lips.

“How so?” he asked accusingly. “What did I do? Erections aren’t bad, Sherlock. They’re the complete opposite of bad. Most men strive for erections at every opportunity.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his common you’re-shockingly-stupid expression coming into place. “I thought it was friendship.”

John’s face softened slightly – emotional confessions from Sherlock always made him go all gooey – but it was clear he still didn’t understand exactly what was being said by the way his shoulders drooped. “We are friends. We can stay friends if that’s what you want. I told you, I’m not going to force anything on you, I want you to b—”

“No, John,” Sherlock groaned, shaking his head and dropping his chin to his chest. “Lord, have mercy. I meant I thought… I thought _it_ was friendship.”

John blinked.

“It, John. This.”

“That… That… What?”

Sherlock growled in frustration. He lifted John’s hand, still in his, and put it over his chest. He was getting increasingly squirmy and (could John’s eyes have been deceiving him?) he was even beginning to blush slightly.

“ _Here,_ John. _This._ ”

Realisation dawned. John’s eyes changed shape, his mouth fell open slightly.

“That’s… That’s actually the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.” John stroked Sherlock’s chest gently before dragging him in for a tight hug – which Sherlock, startled, eventually managed to figure out how to reciprocate.

“You still don’t really understand,” Sherlock said softly, closing his eyes and tucking his face into John’s shoulder.

After all, how _could_ John understand? He’d had friends his whole life. John’s natural state when faced with strangers and dangers was ‘friend’. Sherlock had been isolated as a child – willingly, he freely admitted, but isolated nonetheless. The few times he’d tried reaching out his hand had returned cold and bloodied, for the most part. He’d genuinely had no idea what friendship felt like before John. He’d gotten a taste of it with Lestrade, of course, but nobody ever had to know that.

With John it had been different. There’d been an instant connection there, he’d felt it. John was funny. He was brave. He cared about him. That was friendship too, right? But, of course, he lived with John, and he worked with John. They were best friends. He’d reasoned that friendship felt different depending on what type of friendship it was. He and Lestrade were friends (sort of) so that was a strong feeling right in his stomach. Something trustworthy and even, if he concentrated, pleasant. He and John were best friends, so that was an ache in his chest. It was uncomfortable a lot of the time but that meant he knew they were close. He could live with it.

Well, that had all been wrong. He’d had a crush. Sherlock Holmes, a bloody crush.

“I do,” John said, dragging Sherlock from his distractions. He turned his head and pressed a gentle kiss to the side of Sherlock’s head. “And you’re sweet. A complete idiot, but sweet.”

“I’m not sweet,” Sherlock muttered, but he relaxed. “Kiss me again.”

“With pleasure,” John replied. He pulled away and then came back at a different angle, and Sherlock could feel the grin as their mouths pressed and worked together again.

They took their time exploring each other. Not too much, not too physically, but their hands roamed, stroking and holding, and their mouths synchronised until they were both giving and taking in time with the other. Eventually Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore.

“John,” he grunted, hips pushing into John’s waist so he could press down against something solid. He groaned gently. “God, John.”

John grinned. He wasn’t exactly aroused, but he was happy to help Sherlock out and, if he was being honest, he expected his own little friend would pop up as soon as he got into the swing of things.

“Can we go to a bedroom?” John asked, pulling back slightly. Sherlock looked completely wrecked already. He licked his lips. “It’ll be easier in a bedroom.”

Sherlock nodded. He crossed his legs slightly and reached down to adjust his trousers. John had to look away.

“Mine’s closer,” Sherlock reasoned, and he took John’s hand back and pulled him into his bedroom.

He hadn’t been planning on closing the door, but he realised as soon as they passed the doorway that there was a small chance Mrs Hudson could decide to pop in and say hello. She never opened a fully closed door, so Sherlock swung John around once they’d gotten inside and slammed the door shut behind him.

“Sherlock,” John said, his tone protesting even as he let Sherlock push him back onto the double bed. “Are you sure you’re alright with this? I think we’re going too fast.”

“Too fast?” Sherlock immediately pulled back and looked John over, worried.

“No, not…” John swallowed hard and blushed. “Not for me. I’m fine, trust me. I just… I don’t want you to feel rushed.”

“I don’t,” Sherlock insisted, shaking his head. “Really, John, I don’t. I’ve been waiting for this, remember?”

“Waiting for something you didn’t even know you were waiting for,” John pointed out. He reached up and stroked a tentative hand over Sherlock’s hair.

“Then we’ll go slowly,” Sherlock reasoned, “but I still want this. Right now. Quite badly.”

John had the wind knocked out of him the first time Sherlock rocked his hips against his. “Bloody hell, Sherlock,” he breathed, knotting his fingers into his hair and pulling him down for a much more bruising kiss.

Sherlock responded in kind, taking the cues from Sherlock’s body and doing the same thing again but with a few adjustments. After a moment he realised that the hard lump rubbing against his groin wasn’t only his own anymore, and he couldn’t help but smile as he started kissing down John’s cheek, along his jaw, down his neck, poking his chin down his collar to nip along his collarbone.

“Sherlock,” he breathed, one hand in his hair and the other on his lower back, encouraging his hips. “Are you—”

“No,” Sherlock groaned in response. “I’m—I can’t—John!”

“S’fine,” he replied, kissing Sherlock’s head. He started rolling his hips up to meet the enthusiastic ones on top. “It’s okay. Go on, I want you to.”

Sherlock didn’t want to, not really, but he had to. The last time he’d come it had been in his sleep three weeks ago, and he didn’t remember a thing about it. Today John was with him, encouraging him, telling him to do it, and he couldn’t not. He rocked hard against John’s crotch and shuddered, groaning as he felt his cock twitch in its confines of stupid underwear and stupid trousers. He rocked a few more times, squeezing all he could, and then finished, panting, sprawled with limbs going every which way over John.

By the time he’d caught his breath and turned his head to rest his chin on John’s chest, the hard-on he’d felt beneath him before had disappeared but John wasn’t showing any signs of orgasm. Sherlock frowned.

“John?” he asked, pushing himself onto hands and knees and glancing back down to his crotch. “Did you… You know. Did you?”

John shook his head with a goofy smile. “Nope,” he chuckled, “but I didn’t need to. It’s okay.”

Sherlock frowned, but he did return the chaste kiss John pressed to his lips. “Are you sure?” he asked, sitting back on his heels.

“I’m sure. Besides, it’s a bit early.”

Both of them turned and looked at the window, simultaneously remembering that it was still only about midday.

“Oh,” Sherlock said uncomfortably, cheeks tinting pink. John bit his lips to contain the awed grin. “I see.” He pouted, made some strange kissing noises as he thought, and then turned back to John. “John.”

“Yes?” John grinned; he couldn’t help it. Since when had Sherlock been so… _adorable?_

“Go out with me,” he demanded, hands folded neatly in his lap.

John raised an eyebrow. “I think that’s supposed to be a question.”

“Well, it’s not. Go out with me.”

“You mean like on a date?” John teased, putting his hands on Sherlock’s knees.

Sherlock scowled at him.

“Okay.” John sat up and pecked Sherlock’s lips again, not quite able to get over the fact that he was maybe on his way to being able to do that whenever he wanted. “When?”

Sherlock hummed. “Today.”

“You going to pick me up in a tux and then tell me how scary my dad is over a curry?” John continued, gaze roaming Sherlock’s face in amusement as it pinched. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry. Sorry.” He kissed him again. “I was only joking.”

“I was thinking of taking you to Hackney,” Sherlock said in return, looking down at John’s lap.

John exhaled noisily. “My jokes are funnier than yours.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

“You what? Where do you know in Hackney that’s suitable for a _date?”_ John asked incredulously.

Sherlock smirked. “I wasn’t talking about a date by normal standards, John. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s as if you don’t know me at all.”

“Sherlock, do you actually remember what a date is? We spoke about this a while ago. Two people going out and having fun.”

“Yet again, John, that’s exactly what I was suggesting,” Sherlock pressed, pushing John’s hands from his knees so he could stand up. “I need to change.”

“Into what? Do I need to find a suit? I don’t think I’ve got any that are dry-cleaned.” John moved to sit at the edge of Sherlock’s bed, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“I meant my pants,” he said, opening his top drawer and fishing out a black pair of boxer briefs. John was careful not to look. “What you’re wearing will be fine. We’re not going yet, anyway.”

“Where are we going, then? And when?” He made sure Sherlock had closed his drawer before he turned around. He stretched his arms up over his head.

“I told you, we’re going to Hackney. We’ll go when it starts to get dark. What’ll that be… Around half past five?” He pressed his face to the window and then looked back for John’s opinion.

“I have no idea,” John said, shrugging. “I guess so. It was dark by seven yesterday.”

Sherlock hummed, pulled away from the window. “You can spend your afternoon how you like. We’ll leave at half past five. I’ll be back soon.”

With that he turned around and went to the bathroom to change, leaving John a pretty little smile on his way out. As soon as Sherlock was gone John allowed himself a moment of utter idiocy. He leapt from the bed, shooting straight up into the air, and threw up a fist in celebration. Sherlock would have heard anything else – maybe he even heard the light pounding of his feet when he landed back down on the floor – but this was probably safe.

He couldn’t just keep it all contained. He probably hadn’t been waiting as long as Sherlock had, but, well, it felt like he’d been waiting a while. What did it matter who had been waiting longer? They had each other now, and that was where the cause for celebration was. Granted, he couldn’t celebrate very much without Sherlock finding out and teasing him, but he’d celebrate as much as he could because, fuck it all, things had gotten better. It seemed that around Sherlock everything got better and then, somehow, got better a bit more. He’d never met anybody like Sherlock before.

John glanced around Sherlock’s room with a proud grin. Then he rubbed his hands together, shut the door behind him, and went to make himself a cheese sandwich.

“D’you want lunch?” John asked Sherlock when he next appeared.

“Mm, what are you making?” Sherlock responded. He ran his hands through his hair, organising the curls and smoothing them down a bit. John noticed and smiled faintly. One day, he’d get to do that.

“I was just going to make a sandwich,” he said, “but I don’t mind making something else for you.”

“A sandwich will be fine, thanks. Whatever you’re having. I’m not fussy.” Sherlock collected his magazine from where it had been chucked onto the floor earlier that day and then settled back on the sofa, sitting up this time.

“I’m sorry?” John scoffed as he buttered the bread. “You’re the fussiest person I’ve ever met. You get annoyed if your socks aren’t in order.”

“I’m not fussy when it comes to food,” Sherlock amended, not at all bothered by the accusation.

“Alright, Mr. Digestion-Slows-Me-Down.”

“That’s a fact.”

“That’s utter rubbish.”

The afternoon passed easily. They ate their sandwiches together in front of the TV, John’s leg occasionally brushing Sherlock’s as he shifted around. Sherlock, on his part, wasn’t really sure of their boundaries yet – were they allowed to be sitting this close? Would it have been okay for him to put his arm over John’s shoulders and pull his head down to rest on his shoulder? Would John have minded if he rested his hand on his thigh? He resolved to consult the magazines after lunch, sure that he’d seen questions like that in them before.

John did make it a bit easier, though whether or not he was doing it on purpose was a mystery to Sherlock. He didn’t seem to be having any troubles working out boundaries; he seemed perfectly comfortable. It was almost giving Sherlock the slight confidence boost he needed.

Once they’d eaten, John went around and gathered all of the plates and mugs from the living room without a single complaint. Sherlock resolved that sex really did put people in better moods, and made a mental note of that fact for when he next had to tell John he’d done something horrible with a rotting organ again. Sherlock, satisfied after finally getting first John and then lunch, sat slumped in his seat with his fingers laced over his stomach. He knew he didn’t eat as frequently as was encouraged, but he didn’t think he needed to. Even a sandwich was enough to fill him to the point of bloating.

By the time John sat down he felt a bit better. John brought the remote with him and changed it from the new not-quite-a-comedy show on a channel he’d never seen before to the BBC News at One. Sherlock rolled his eyes and excused himself for a moment.

And then he came back with a pile of women’s magazines.

“You won’t have time to read all of those before we go out,” John mumbled in a vague attempt to get him to put them back.

“I’m not reading all of them. I need to look some things up.” Sherlock put them on the floor and then took a seat in his armchair. “You carry on, don’t mind me.”

John, heaving a great sigh, tuned Sherlock’s incessant page-flicking out and focused on the news. It probably wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had, really, watching the news on Remembrance Day when he’d already been quite miserable enough for one day, but it was better than the rest of the daytime crap that was on. Besides, it brought his attention back to the real matters at hand, what the day was supposed to be about.

Then the guilt set in. Maybe today hadn’t been the best day to start off a… A whatever it was, with Sherlock. This was supposed to be a peaceful day of remembering loved ones, thanking the fallen, and here he was ignoring his own past and everyone else’s by sleeping with his flatmate. At least, he was classing it as sleeping with him.

John swallowed hard and changed the channel to another one he hadn’t heard of before. Maybe it was the same one, actually. There was a different show airing – how was he supposed to know? He got up and made coffee, sensing he’d need some to survive this for much longer, and checked his phone while he was waiting for his kettle to boil.

_alright, johnny? call me later!! hw x_

He smiled to himself and sent a reply to his sister, assuring her that he was doing okay and that he’d call her that night if he got time. He’d only just sent his reply when the kettle finished, and he made his coffee and got back to the sofa to check his second new message, this one from Greg Lestrade.

_Figured you might want to go for a pint tonight. Was I right? GL_

John rubbed his chin, taken aback. He didn’t have many friends, or even talk to many people outside, of his immediate group, but the friends he did have were kind. They cared about him. He was glad, yet again, that he hadn’t had the guts to do anything regretful the previous year. The people had been right: it _had_ gotten better.

_SORRY BUSY TONIGHT. TOMORROW OKAY? JW_

Message sent, he put his phone on the table and refocused his attention on the television, not noticing Sherlock’s smirk. He always found it funny watching John attempt to use technology, but he knew how much he hated being teased. Sherlock found that funny, too, really. John could stand to live with Sherlock Holmes, with his never-ending work hours and frequent illegal experiments, but he couldn’t stand being teased about his sexuality, or his height, or his ineptitude with anything electrical. By ways of what he stood for and against, he was more of a man’s man than Sherlock was.

After an hour and a half of occasional chatter but mostly silence, Sherlock piped up. He’d been looking for information on starting relationships, general behaviour, thought process, anything to do with it, but instead had found something else, and this issue had him much more worried.

“John,” he said, frowning at the magazine.

“Mm?” John answered, rolling his head around to meet Sherlock’s eye. Somehow over the course of the last hour he’d slumped right down the sofa.

Sherlock lowered his magazine to his stomach. “Are you certain you’re in the right place emotionally to begin a relationship with me?”

John’s eyebrows shot right up his head. He seemed to be in shock for the moment.

Sherlock swallowed. “I’m aware that you were unhappy earlier, and I’ve realised that perhaps my efforts at comforting you were a bit too… Forward. Are you feeling pressured into coming out with me tonight?”

“No,” John said firmly, his shock turning into firm defiance. “Absolutely not. I make my own decisions, Sherlock, I’m a big boy. I can handle myself and I know I want to be with you.”

“But maybe you just _think_ you do. You were feeling fragile earlier and I think my comforts influenced you in ways you otherwise wouldn’t have chosen to feel. I think I may have taken advantage of your emotional state.” Sherlock scratched his forehead hard, greatly troubled at these realisations. Had he really forced himself onto John without realising? “I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”

“Sherlock,” John said incredulously. He sat up, sliding along the sofa until he was closer to Sherlock. “I just told you, I can make my own decisions. I knew what I was doing then and I know what I’m doing now, and this is what I want. Trust me. And put those bloody magazines in the bin.” John put out his leg and shoved the pile over.

“John!” Sherlock cried, bending down and scooping them back up. “Those were in order!”

“They’re a load of crap, I’ve told you this.”

“I think they’re very useful.”

“We just proved that they’re all wrong!” John said, pointing at the one in Sherlock’s lap. “I’m not a woman, Sherlock, I don’t feel things that way. Women and men have very different ideas and ways of thinking about things.”

 _Not really,_ Sherlock thought. “Alright,” he said, “perhaps this article doesn’t apply to you, but it might apply to other people. You’re always telling me to read up on emotions and learn to manage other people, and, well, this is me reading up.”

“I’d meant maybe reading a psychology book, or actually making an effort to talk to someone. Not some gossip magazines.” John flopped back against the sofa and rolled his eyes.

“I don’t have anyone to talk to,” Sherlock pointed out, closing the rumpled magazine he had and putting it at the top of his stack.

“You know plenty of people,” John said. “Maybe I should introduce you to my sister.”

Sherlock scoffed. “If any of the comments she’s left on your blog are at all like her real self, I’d rather keep well away. Thank you for the thought.”

John grinned. “God, you’d bloody hate her. She’s… She’s an extrovert, let me say. She’s very nice, though.”

“I don’t really care about nice,” Sherlock muttered.

“No, I know that much,” John said in return. “I bet she could get you to a party, though.”

Sherlock looked up at John with the dirtiest scowl he’d ever seen.

“What?” John laughed, sitting up and muting the television. “She can get anyone to a party, she’s that sort of woman.”

“I don’t go to parties.” He pulled his sleeve up and checked the time. “Go and put some proper shoes on, we have to leave soon.”

John turned the TV off and stood up, stretching backwards. “Right, that. What sort of proper shoes?”

“Running shoes,” Sherlock answered, scooping his pile back up again and carrying it through to his bedroom. “We’re going to hackney.”

John grinned as he followed him through to the stairs. “Really? We’re doing that tonight?”

“Not all night,” he replied, dropping the magazines on his bed. “Just for the rest of the afternoon. This bit’s my date.”

“Your date?” John called from his bedroom. “What does that mean?”

“Well, we’ve got the afternoon and then the evening and then the rest of the night. That’s three parts. There are two of us. I’ll take you out for the afternoon, you take me out for the evening, and then we can both have the rest of the night here.” Sherlock slipped his shoes back on. “I’m taking you to do what I see as a fantastic date, and then you can take me on the sort of date you’d take someone on. Does that make sense?”

“God,” John breathed as he came back down. He’d changed his jumper for a cardigan that would better fit under his coat. “Nothing with you can ever be normal, can it? We can’t just go out for dinner.”

“We can, if you want.” Sherlock frowned. He turned and went into the living room, picking John’s coffee up and giving it to him. “Is that what you want?”

“No,” John replied. He took a single sip of his coffee and put it on the side, not wanting the distraction. “It’s fine, Sherlock, it sounds fun. I’m just saying this isn’t what normal people do.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed, “our one will be much better.”

John grinned and passed Sherlock his coat and scarf. “I think so, too,” he said, pulling his coat on. This time he was going to make sure he was completely zipped up before he ventured outside – especially now that it was getting dark. “What’s the actual plan, then? Have you had a tip-off?”

“Nope,” came the answer as Sherlock pulled on his gloves. “We’re going to turn up in Hackney and walk around until we find something.”

“Oh. Yep, great plan. That shouldn’t take too long.” John turned on the stairs and threw a frown over his shoulder at Sherlock.

“Shut up, John, Hackney’s got some of the highest crime rates in London. It shouldn’t take too long for us to find someone – or have someone find us.” Sherlock saw John instinctively check where his wallet was. “Actually, I saw recently that Westminster actually has, by far, the highest rate of crimes per thousand people. You’re perfectly safe.”

“I’m never safe around you,” John muttered, but he shuffled closer to Sherlock anyway when the cold, dry wind hit his face. “God, it’s freezing.”

“It is November, John.”

“I know that, thanks.”

Their banter continued in the steadily darkening afternoon light, and soon they’d been walking for fifteen minutes. John glanced up at Sherlock.

“Are we not getting a cab at all?” he asked, frowning.

“No, not tonight.” Sherlock glanced down the road, eyes narrowing as he looked for something. John had no idea what he was looking at; they were still pretty close to home.

“I literally just told you how cold I am, and tonight’s the night you want to walk? You bastard.” John shook his head.

“John, we’re getting the bus,” Sherlock explained.

John didn’t believe him.

Two buses later they were en route to the closest side of Hackney, John all snug and bundled in the corner of the back bench and Sherlock settled in next to him. The sour look on his face was the greatest thing John had ever seen.

John had to stop himself from laughing out loud when as soon as they hit Hackney, a bunch of teenagers got off the bus. Sherlock seemed certain of following them, and once the first knife was pulled on the pair of them and that first sting of adrenaline shot straight from the centre of John’s chest, he had to admit that, yes, this was the best date Sherlock could ever have taken him on.


	3. The Dates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every single bloody afternoon for the past week I've thought "Oh, better upload chapter three tonight." Did I remember? No.
> 
> Really sorry. Here it is!

Sherlock, unashamedly, used John as bait for most of the bit of afternoon they had left. Funnily enough, John didn’t remember ever consenting or even being asked to lure in the various drug dealers and sexual predators that roamed the streets of London, but that was what seemed to have happened. He didn’t question it, because, after a few seconds of actually thinking about it, it did seem to make more sense.

Sherlock looked a lot like he’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth _(a massive, penis-shaped spoon,_ John thought, out of absolutely nowhere and so suddenly and powerfully that he outwardly flinched – Sherlock noticed, but didn’t say anything) whereas John looked… well, John looked normal. He knew he did. He didn’t mind in the least, either; after all, he wasn’t ugly, and it meant he got to enjoy the looks of surprise he got when he had the rare chance to show off his hidden strength, whether that was by tackling a six foot kidnapper or a friendly arm wrestle at the pub.

Or evenings like tonight’s.

As it turned out, it was very easy to make John look utterly defenceless. All Sherlock did was unzip his jacket and straighten him up a bit.

“Why are you making me look like _more_ of a douchebag?” John asked, holding his hands up and away from him as Sherlock pulled the hem of his jumper down to a straight line over the waistband of his jeans. “Surely this is counterproductive.”

“I’m not making you look like a _douchebag,”_ Sherlock argued, spitting the word out like a tiger would rabbit food. “I’m making you look like a geek.”

“Oh, right,” John said sarcastically, nodding his head. “How silly of me. _Why?”_

Sherlock sat up with a major huff, practically stamping his foot on the ground. “John, why do you ask me _everything?_ Think for yourself, you’re more than capable!”

“Oh, sure, now you think I’m smart enough,” John muttered as Sherlock pushed his head down. Hands started running through his hair, neatening it up and smoothing it down.

Sherlock paused. “Sometimes,” he corrected, quickly getting back to work.

John sighed and grimaced as Sherlock pressed his cold hands all over his head. Then he tried to think and, sure enough, it wasn’t long until the answer came to him. Sherlock shocked him by reaching his freezing hands under his jumper and pulling his trousers up far too high, and it was with that final yelp of pain and surprise that it solidified in his head.

“You want me to look weedy,” John concluded, letting Sherlock zip his jacket all the way up again, right up past his collar. “You think that a lot more people are going to see me as a much easier target if I look like I’ve never thrown a punch my whole life.”

“Don’t you?” Sherlock mentioned, crouching and rolling the legs of John’s trousers up one turn.

“Yes, I do,” John muttered as he tried not to think about how close Sherlock’s head was to his groin, “and I know it’s true, which is exactly why I’m having second thoughts.”

“Stop your fussing.” Sherlock stood up, had a look, and then changed his mind. “I’ll be right behind you.”

John was relieved when Sherlock pulled his trouser legs back down. His ankles had been getting cold. “Yes, a whole street away and watching me get stabbed. Thanks, I feel much better.”

“I don’t know what you’re so concerned about, you’ve taken down much worse than teenagers,” Sherlock pointed out, standing up and assessing John again. “Cross your arms for a moment. No, keep your legs straight and firm, just cross your arms.”

“Not all muggers are teenagers,” came the reminder as John crossed his arms. “That’s just a stereotype.”

“It’s a damn accurate one, though,” Sherlock replied. John couldn’t deny that. “Alright. Don’t touch anything. You can drop your arms if you like. Go… that way.” He turned around and pointed down the road, back in the direction they’d come.

“If I get stabbed tonight, I’m going to be so pissed off with you,” John muttered, stalking past Sherlock and plodding off down the road. Sherlock grinned at the back of his head but said nothing.

They walked like that for just a little while, Sherlock conducting John through backstreets and alleys and council housing estates, before he spotted a bunch of drunken kids whooping and prancing towards them from the other end of the road. _Finally,_ Sherlock thought impatiently. John looked back at him, really looking quite nervous, but Sherlock gave him an encouraging nod and watched him walk a bit faster. His head went down and his hands shoved deep into his pockets and, just like that, he’d assumed his unassuming character for the evening.

There were three of them, and they came at him like a pack of wolves would a deer. Sherlock couldn’t see any weapons on them but the largest was holding John quite firmly to the wall, and he could hear his furious shouts of _“What did you say to me?!”_ even from all the way back where he was. He called the police as the victim’s best friend, in shock and stuttering, and they lapped his descriptions up and promised to send a car straight away.

Before they got there, though, Sherlock did.

The three of them were hammered and he soon realised he didn’t have to walk half as inconspicuously as he’d been trying to. John looked genuinely terrified when Sherlock peered over the smallest one’s shoulder, inches away and yet unnoticed; all of their attention was on their little geeky victim. Sherlock thought briefly that he regretted not having glasses on him. John looked quite cute.

The largest of the two small ones slammed a punch to John’s gut and he groaned loudly, dropping his chin to his chest.

“What did you _fucking say?”_ the larger one shrieked. Sherlock immediately felt awful for his lack of concern, as John was clearly suffering very much, and at his hands, no less, so he reached over and clamped a hand around the biggest one’s mouth, wrenching him away and off of John. He threw him down onto the pavement and his drunken body was too slow and clumsy to reach out in time and break his fall. His head connected with the pavement with a dull thud and he was out cold straight away.

The other two were a piece of cake, even from where John was standing. It was like watching something out of a cartoon as they took blind swings at Sherlock and ended up punching each other in the face. John wheezed a little huff of a laugh and dragged himself up from the floor. Sherlock was sat on one of the boys and was holding the other down until his partner was ready to take a seat on him, too.

“Are you alright?” he asked as John flopped down on top of the second boy.

John nodded, wincing slightly. “Yep. I’ve had much worse than this. Just took me by surprise.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked, looking him over. John nodded again, smiling slightly. “What did you actually say to him?”

“I have no idea.” John shrugged. He laughed softly and the boy under him started struggling, so he pushed his arms further up his back as he continued. “I genuinely didn’t say anything. I think it must have been one of these two.”

Sherlock sighed, shaking his head. “The police will be here soon. I told them we were just walking and they jumped you.”

Sure enough, the police were there soon after, and John agreed with Sherlock’s story. He also tacked on a few bits about how the boys were so drunk they’d turned on each other to explain away their other injuries. The officers didn’t seem to have any idea who they were, luckily, and they were allowed to go home and get themselves collected. _“We’ll give you a call for your statements,”_ the man had said, and John had thanked him in as shaky a manner as he could and leaned into Sherlock as they walked away. Of course, they didn’t go home.

Around the corner from where the cars, with their headache-inducing lights and wince-worthy sirens, were pulling away, Sherlock turned back to John, eyes bright.

“What do you want to stop next?” he asked, almost bouncing on the spot.

“What does it matter?” John laughed. He gave Sherlock an affectionate bump with his shoulder. “It’s not like we can just turn up and one will appear right in front of us. Even Hackney doesn’t work that way.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Out of curiosity, then. In an ideal world, what would you do next?”

“Go home and get a cup of tea.”

“Liar.”

John laughed again, and Sherlock thought he’d never get sick of that sneaky little giggle he did when he thought he shouldn’t laugh.

“Oh, God,” John sighed, thinking, “I suppose… I really don’t know. A kidnapping.”

Kidnapping. _Why kidnapping?_ It was easy, Sherlock supposed. When they did kidnappings all they had to do was provide a distraction and set a trap. He could tell by the looks on John’s face that his favourite bit was watching the abductor realise he’d lost.

“Hm,” Sherlock hummed, looking around. “Let’s go this way.”

This time they were walking for a while. Sherlock knew every street in London, and he was walking them towards a park which had a small wood that doubled as a prime dogging spot in its spare time. He supposed John wouldn’t be too keen on the dogging (not that he knew everything about the man) but if it was used for that, what was to say it wouldn’t be used for other adult things at night, too? It was a good twenty minute walk before they got there, but Sherlock let John sort his clothes out on the way so he was a bit warmer and looked a bit more normal.

“Starbucks is still open,” John mentioned as they passed a high street. A few of the shop signs were still lit up, one of which was a coffee shop – or, in John’s mind, a _warm_ shop.

“It’s only twenty to seven,” Sherlock pointed out, glancing up at the sky. John paused.

“Are you telling the time by seeing how far down the sun is?”

“Yes.”

“What, really? How?”

“No, you idiot, I checked my phone when we left the police,” Sherlock scoffed, grinning.

“Pillock,” John muttered. “For that, you can buy me a coffee.”

Sherlock chuckled deeply and gave John a gentle shove in the direction of the Starbucks. “I suppose we could get some to go. What would you like?”

“Dunno. I don’t really go to Starbucks very often.” John frowned and looked up at him. “What would you recommend?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know what you like. Get a normal one.”

“Actually, forget coffee. I’ll have a hot chocolate, thanks.” With a teasingly broad grin, John smacked both hands down on Sherlock’s back and walked him to the line. “Take your time. It’s toasty warm in here.”

To emphasise his point, John sauntered into the corner and sank down into a brown leather armchair, rubbing his hands together. Sherlock squinted and turned his back to John to queue. But he didn’t mind buying him a drink. This was something normal people did, something couples did. It really _was_ like a date. Not a conventional one, by any means, but still a date, and he was enjoying himself. So was John, hopefully.

“Your hot chocolate, _sir,”_ Sherlock grumbled, shoving one of the medium-sized drinks towards John. He took him by his free hand and pulled him up. “You owe me about four pounds.”

“Golly. Spent all that on me, did you?” John popped the cap off his drink and gave it a sniff. “God, it smells amazing. Thanks.”

Sherlock was about to tell John he was very welcome, but then a warm little hand slipped into his and squeezed it and all the words he’d ever learnt flew right out of his head, so instead he just squeezed back, harder, and didn’t let go. Things went quiet for a few moments as they strolled back to the road they were meant to be on, only this time hand-in-hand. John was preoccupied with not burning himself on his hot chocolate and Sherlock was preoccupied with not pulling John’s hand into his chest and never letting go.

“Where are we going?” John said suddenly, and Sherlock jumped out of his reveries.

“Park,” Sherlock answered. He took a sip of his mocha.

John looked up at him, a goofy grin on his face. “We’re going for a walk in the park?”

“Yes.” Sherlock frowned slightly. John just laughed under his breath.

“All we need is for it to rain.”

“Rain is the last thing we need.”

John rolled his eyes. “Never mind. Romance film cliché, that’s all.”

“Oh.” Sherlock paused. “Right. Well, this park isn’t quite one from a romance film. There’s a secret society at the university campus near here that meet on Monday nights.”

“Oh? What society is that?” John raised an eyebrow.

“The dogging society,” Sherlock answered easily, and John choked on his drink.

“There’s… I didn’t think… What?”

Sherlock looked at him. “It’s a dogging society. Didn’t you hear me?”

“That’s not quite a kidnapping, Sherlock,” John pointed out.

Sherlock sighed. “This isn’t the kidnapping, we’re going to find a dealer.”

“What d’you mean, _the_ kidnapping? Do you know there’s a kidnapping?” John’s eyes widened.

“No, John! I’ll _find_ you a kidnapper of some sort, but this isn’t it. We’re going through the park and into the dodgy side, alright?” Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the back of John’s hand.

“Right, okay. I get it now.” John squeezed his hand. Sherlock shivered and squeezed back again.

“I’ve got you a badge for you in my pocket, I’m using Lestrade’s. It’s just up the road here, keep an eye out.” Sherlock lifted his drink and gestured to the end of the road where, on the right, the houses stopped and the street opened out on one side.

Sherlock passed his coffee to John and dipped his hand into his inside pocket, pulling out two police badges in black wallets. He checked the names and then swapped his coffee for a badge.

“You’re DI Dimmock for tonight. Use your powers wisely.” Sherlock smiled and John snorted at the name and picture on his ID.

“Couldn’t even change the pictures?”

“It’s dark.”

John scoffed again, and then Sherlock produced a pair of handcuffs from his coat pocket.

“Let’s go and catch ourselves a drug dealer, shall we?”

They were responsible for seven arrests in total. After the drug dealer they walked a bit longer and caught an armed robbery taking place at a house, and a woman and her two children were being held hostage at knifepoint. Sherlock said that counted as a kidnapping, and John agreed. After all, they didn’t have conditions on _what_ was being kidnapped.

It was surreal, actually, how much danger managed to find them that night. John knew it was a bad area but, well, that bad? He hadn't thought so. Everywhere had its ups and downs but being a victim of two muggings, two drug deals gone wrong, and an armed robbery in one night was definitely a first for him. He didn’t remember how, but at some point over the course of the evening he’d lost his drink, and he only realised when they were already walking back towards the bus stop they’d come from.

“So?” Sherlock said, also now empty-handed.

John blinked. “So what?”

“Your date,” Sherlock reminded him.

“Oh. Hm…”

“You don’t have any idea where to take me,” Sherlock deduced with a smile. He slid his hand back into John’s. It was a lot warmer than it had been earlier – but, then again, they’d been chasing that last drug dealer for a while. John’s hand curled around his like another glove.

“Maybe we should go to Angelo’s.”

Sherlock gave him a sidelong glance, a slight squint at his eyes. “Is that a romantic gesture or a lazy suggestion?”

John paused, biting his lip and pretending to think about it. “Whichever you’d prefer.”

“I’d prefer somewhere new,” Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows, “but I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you. I only planned a whole date and saved your life a few times, it’s no big deal.”

John smacked him on the arm. “Shut up, all you did was try and get me killed.”

“Yes, and then I saved your life,” Sherlock reminded him, but he was smiling.”

“Jesus, this could go on all night. Just tell me where you want to eat.”

“Somewhere quiet,” Sherlock answered, “and that serves pasta.”

“Pasta. Shouldn’t be too difficult.” He paused. “You know I don’t know any expensive restaurants at all, right?”

“I didn’t say it had to be expensive,” Sherlock said, frowning. What a ridiculous assumption. “I simply like to eat in places that don’t make me look overdressed.”

“Where you look casual, I look underdressed. You can get away with overdressed, but I can’t get away with underdressed. Not with this face.”

“Your face is fine, John,” Sherlock muttered. “Have you seen mine?”

John scoffed. “Don’t talk to me about your face.”

Sherlock gave him a very pointedly offended look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

John just shook his head. “No, don’t. There’s nothing wrong with your face. Your face is the very opposite of wrong, alright?”

“You’re as bad as the women,” Sherlock mumbled, thinking of last month’s issue of _OK!_.

John only snorted in response, swinging their hands together in time with their steps. They fell into another companionable silence, keeping each other warm, broken only by a realisation on John’s part. “Harry,” he said, looking up at Sherlock.

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, just, um, Harry. My sister, she told me about an Italian restaurant in Marylebone a couple of years ago. She said it was a posh one, so it’s probably just about on the classy side of cheap.” He smiled. “I’ll text her, one second.”

Sherlock had been hoping to find a cab, but unfortunately they were both without opportunity and a destination for the moment. He began to lead John to the station, and by the time they were going down to the right platform for Central London John had gotten off the phone.

“It’s called Getti. She’s going to text me the address.” John’s phone went back into his pocket as the signal died. “Heard of it?”

“Yes, but I don’t know where it is.” Sherlock checked the time: just past nine o’clock. It was no wonder John’s stomach had been rumbling. “You didn’t tell me you were hungry.”

“We were having fun.” John shrugged.

Sherlock frowned and nudged John around to face him. “Next time you want a meal, you tell me. It’s gone nine o’clock, you must be starving, but I’m only just starting to feel peckish. You have to tell me when you want to eat because I _do_ forget.”

John looked confused, and he shuffled closer to Sherlock, not wanting to make their relationship status obvious but still wanting to comfort him. “I know you do,” he said softly, “but I’m fine, I really am. I’ve been in more dire situations than this.”

Sherlock snorted at that. In his mind, having been in a worse situation was no reason to be in a bad one again. He wasn’t, however, willing to press the issue, and so gave John a withering look and turned to watch the dark and dreary landscape.

“Marylebone High Street,” John said once they were out on the street again. Sherlock instantly took off to the right and hailed a cab. “Number 42, if that’s any help.”

Sherlock grunted. Once they were safely hidden in the cab, he reached across the seat, eyes set dead ahead, and took John’s hand again.

John smiled to himself.

They were at the restaurant in just ten minutes, and John let Sherlock pay as he perused the outside.

“Were we supposed to book?” Sherlock asked, sidling up to him.

“No idea,” John mumbled. “Probably. Let’s go and find out.”

“John Watson?”

John’s head snapped around, hearing his name as soon as he walked in – and it hadn’t come from Sherlock’s mouth. “Did you hear that?”

“Over there,” Sherlock muttered, pointing at a man in perfectly fitting waiter’s clothing and too much hair gel. He was coming towards them from the back of the restaurant with a tray under his arm and a really ridiculously large grin on his face. John’s eyes caught on the little poppy in his uniform and, suddenly, he softened.

“Who the hell is that?” John murmured through a still false, and slightly confused, smile.

After a second of thoughtful humming, Sherlock decided, “He reads your blog.”

As soon as the waiter came over, he stuck out his hand for a strong, excitable shake. “You’re John Watson, aren’t you?”

“Um, yes. That’s me. Hello.”

Sherlock snorted.

“And Sherlock Holmes,” the man beamed. “God, my girlfriend and I love your blog. Your first case is still my favourite.”

“Oh,” John said awkwardly, pulling his hand away from the grip that was still covering it. Despite his flustered state, his smile was genuine. “That’s… really good. Thank you.”

Sensing that he’d made John uncomfortable, he backed off a bit, gesturing around him. “Are you here to eat, or have you got another case for us?”

John chuckled under his breath at Sherlock’s sigh. “Just for dinner, thanks.”

“Sure!” the waiter cried, turning to have a look around. “Just hang on here for a second, and I’ll find you somewhere. We’re a bit packed tonight.”

“No problem,” John said, turning and grinning at Sherlock as the man worked his way through the tables. “Mm, _goodness,_ it’s a _horror_ that people read my blog, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, fixing them on the waiter that was now on his way over. “Shut up. People read mine.”

“There’s a table for two just freed up right at the back. Do you want to sit now, or would you like it cleared first?” the man asked, pointing around the bar.

“It’s—”

“We’ll have it cleared,” Sherlock said firmly, stepping forwards. The man looked like he was about to piss himself with excitement.

“O-of course, Sir,” he said, nodding, before scurrying out the back to call for some more waiters.

It took literally a minute for them to be seated at a clean table, one side against the wall, with a little red candle between them. John stared down at the candle.

“You’re remembering the first time we did this,” Sherlock deduced easily, turning back after orderin the wine. He passed John a menu.

“Yup,” John replied with a smile. He looked up and accepted it, opening to the starters. “You want a starter?”

“These main courses look too big,” Sherlock commented, “so no. What were you thinking about?”

“How you ran off and made me run off with you.” John smiled fondly down at the sheet. “Just mains, then. I might get a carbonara.”

“Have the tagliatelle,” Sherlock suggested. “I didn’t make you run off with me. I just knew you would.”

John looked up at him and smiled. Then, placing the menu until it was blocking the rest of the restaurant, he leaned down and rested his chin on his hands. Under the safety of the cover the menu provided, he said, “If we weren’t in public I’d kiss you right now.”

Sherlock looked very flustered. He shuffled awkwardly for a moment, wishing he still had his coat on so he could sink down into it. “I… I assume you want to keep this exclusive, too,” he murmured, unbuttoning and doing again the buttons on his suit jacket. “Not exclusive, I mean. Wrong word, perhaps. I meant… Quiet. Keep it between us.”

John couldn’t help but grin. “Well, if that’s alright. I just… I don’t know how people will react, and I’m still, kind of… You know. Getting used to it. In case you’ve forgotten, it was only this morning.”

Sherlock had forgotten. He nodded, sending John a reassuring smile. In all honesty, he completely agreed, but for different reasons: he wanted John to himself for a while. He wanted to make him feel good. When he didn’t take his menu from where it was standing on the table, Sherlock closed his own and put it down.

“Ready?” he asked. John nodded and took his menu back as the waiter from earlier came over with a bottle of red wine. “We’ll have one tagliatelle carbonara and a ravioli, please.”

He glanced between them with a keen smile. “Certainly. Here’s your wine, your glasses are on the table… I’ll leave this here for you.”

He put the bottle in a cooler and left it on the table, hurrying off to put in a good word for their food.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Sherlock said, amused. “I think more people should read your blog. I also think that man has a bit of a crush on you.”

“Don’t be stupid, he’s just excited,” John argued softly, stacking the menus that he’d forgotten to taken. “He said he had a girlfriend.”

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally. John shook his head.

“You think everyone’s gay. I’ve learnt not to listen.”

“Suit yourself.”

John bit his lips to hold back his grin as the waiter reappeared and took their menus with a tiny apology.

“Well, your part of the date has been spectacularly boring so far,” Sherlock sighed, leaning back in his seat.

“You just shut up and wait until your food gets here.” John found his feet under the table and gave him a sharp kick. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he jumped, but he didn’t say anything. John, with a proud smile, took a sip of his wine. He immediately spat it back out into his glass. “Oh, Jesus, what the… What is that?”

He offered his glass to Sherlock, who frowned and took up his own instead. “It’s just their house red,” he answered. He took a sip and forced it down. “Oh, wow.” He shuddered. “Did your sister not say anything about the wine?”

John glanced up at him, an eyebrow raised.

“Oh. Sorry.” Sherlock put his glass down awkwardly. John didn’t mind.

Shockingly enough for Sherlock, the dinner passed… well, not very boringly. The wine was taken back and a better bottle was brought to them on the house. The food arrived within the next fifteen minutes (fastest service John had ever had at a place like this, and it was courtesy to _his_ blog – he was quite proud) and that was much more tasty than the wine had been. Sherlock had been right about the tagliatelle, though John wasn’t sure why.

“Lots of people were eating it,” he’d answered with a shrug.

The ravioli was the best Sherlock had ever tried, and had come with a little side pot of a spicy tomato sauce and a tiny bowl of parmesan cheese to top it off. They swapped a mouthful each and, genuinely, couldn’t decide whose was better. Or, at least, John couldn’t. Sherlock insisted that his own was, but he couldn’t help but think that maybe that was just because he wouldn’t have been able to live with the possibility that he’d chosen something that wasn’t the best. John’s carbonara was rich and creamy and also came with a little bowl of parmesan, so he really was incredibly chuffed.

John paid with his card, but Sherlock left a generous tip, mostly because at the end of the meal John looked so elated and proud of himself that he thought their waiter deserved a bit extra. Maybe, because of all the buffing up the man had done for his ego, John would be willing to go a bit further with him tonight.

Sherlock bearing that thought in mind was the only reason they’d managed to survive the dinner as peacefully and quickly as they had. They’d only had one course, and then a coffee each, but, even with the fantastic service, it had still taken them two hours. Sherlock thanked the Gods that he hadn’t wanted a starter; it probably would have added an extra hour to their time, and he wanted to kiss John again. It had been all he could think about all through their meal.

That was how John, at half past eleven on a Sunday night, found himself holding hands with Sherlock Holmes in the back of a cab – for the second time in one evening. His appetite for food had slowly died down the more time they’d spent at the restaurant, but his appetite for a kiss went unfulfilled. By the time he paid for the cab, seeing as Sherlock had paid for the rest, he was starving. The air was thick and heavy with the unresolved tension between them. Their hands were clasped together but neither could look at the other, so determined to keep their growing attraction quiet.

Sherlock had already gotten the door open when John made it to the steps, and he walked ahead inside but held the door for him.

“Thanks,” John murmured awkwardly, stepping past him and beginning up the stairs as he closed the door quietly behind them. Sherlock didn’t say anything but he could hear him following him up. The silence drifted on between them as they took their coats off and hung them up.

When John’s coat was on the rack, he turned to watch Sherlock hang up his scarf, a longing expression on his face. Sherlock slowly turned to face him, the same look on his own. Right there, in front of their wide-open front door, they wrapped their arms around each other and they kissed.


	4. Remembering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the longest boringest smut i've ever written i'm so sorry

Sherlock was a little torn, if he was being honest. The only thing that had been on his mind for the last hour had been kissing John senseless, and now that that was underway… well, he realised that he hadn’t really thought this far ahead. He’d meticulously planned each hour of their day up to this point and conveniently forgotten that things that weren’t _kiss John_ also existed. He wasn’t sure how the last few hours of the day had slipped away from him, he really wasn’t, but he was damn certain that it was something to do with _kiss John._

That phrase had been haunting him for a while now, far longer than simply the last hour. It had been persistent, but not the first of its kind.

No, the very first had come a few months ago, and Sherlock hadn’t been sure that it had even been a _kiss John_ at the time, but now he was. He was very adept at spotting them now, even retrospectively, and the first had been over the summer. It had been July, if he remembered correctly. 15 th July, 25.3°C outside. He’d been running an experiment about chickens and run out of eggs. He couldn’t remember what he’d been doing (the results must have been useless) but clearly he hadn’t been able to bring himself to delete this snippet of the day.

He’d texted John at about lunchtime, dropped a little hint:

_Run out of eggs. SH_

He hadn’t gotten a reply, but he hadn’t really expected to. John had turned out to have a lot more work to do after he’d accidentally gotten he and his _girlfriend_ kidnapped and almost murdered by Chinese smugglers – _the keyword there being ‘almost’,_ Sherlock thought – so he wasn’t surprised when he didn’t get so much as a ‘So?’ in response. He’d taken the vegetables from the fridge and replaced them with his work, effectively pausing the experiment for the time being. The same couldn’t be said for the decomposition of the vegetables, but he didn’t care about them.

He’d taken a cold shower and determinedly pulled his suit back on, refusing to let the heat put him out of his usual, cool self, and, when he’d finally finished messing around with his hair in attempt to get it to look less like that of a ragdoll, he came out to find John waiting for him. His hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat and his breathing was slightly laboured, suggesting he’d only just got in, but his too-small jumper was already off and he was leaning casually against the doorway to the kitchen in an attempt at making Sherlock believe he’d been waiting for a while.

“Warm?” Sherlock had asked amusedly. He’d smoothed down his lapels as he stepped forwards, going for the living room.

Then, John had said to him, “Your hair looks hilarious.”

He’d felt a pang of spite and glared fiercely at him, but as soon as John had held up the Tesco bag he’d mellowed. It hung from his index finger, swinging gently, and John had just stood there staring at him.

“Oh,” Sherlock had breathed, eyes roaming John’s form again. This had been around the time John had been struggling with his funds, asking to borrow some money until he could get a job, and there he was buying Sherlock eggs that he knew would only go to what some thought of as waste. All he could think was _how kind_ , and Sherlock recognised it now for what it really was: a little urge deep in his chest and hot in his throat telling him to _kiss John._

“Eggs,” Sherlock blurted. John pulled back and he stared at him with wide eyes, not really sure what had just come out of his own mouth.

“I-I’m sorry?” John frowned and looked over Sherlock’s shoulder to the kitchen. “Did you just say ‘eggs’?”

“I,” Sherlock hesitated, but nothing that made any sort of sense seemed to want to follow the word out. He shut his trap immediately and nodded instead, uncertain.

John waited. No elaboration came. “Did you want to, you know, explain? Explain why you… Eggs? Really?”

It was safe to say that the moment had passed. They were standing a foot apart now, John staring up with his eyebrows twisted in confusion and Sherlock staring down with his eyebrows in his hair in shock.

Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed like that of a brainless fish as he tried to explain his thought process. “Chickens,” he came up with instead, floundering.

“Chickens.” John swallowed. He stepped from foot to foot. “Sherlock, are you alright?”

Sherlock shook his head. He couldn’t think. Everything in his head had moved at the same time that everything outside of his head had moved, like two cogs turning together instead of one turning another, and they’d jammed together and… Well. Eggs. Suddenly there was soft leather beneath him and then he sank to the left as John joined him on the sofa.

“I really don’t understand what’s happened,” John admitted worriedly, his hand still safely keeping Sherlock’s. “I’m sorry. You need to actually _say_ something.”

“Ch-chickens,” Sherlock said desperately, shaking his head at John. Where the hell had all the words gone?

“Something that _isn’t_ about poultry.” John sighed and returned Sherlock’s hands to his lap. “I’ll get you a drink.”

John tried not to let the cold weight settling in his chest affect him. He tried to think of it in an I’m-such-a-great-kisser-that-I-broke-Sherlock way instead of a Sherlock-hated- it-so-much-I-broke-him way. At the back of his mind, though, despite the concern for Sherlock and the disappointment that they wouldn’t be getting any further tonight, he was angry that he’d be ending yet another Remembrance Day with a drink.

During his last year in the barracks they’d had an early start due the morning after, but every single one of them had had a quiet night in with a six-pack of beer. None of them really remembered what time they’d gotten to bed that night but they all remembered the atmosphere in the convoy the next morning.

“I was running an experiment with chickens in July and you bought me eggs.”

John jumped. He straightened himself up, realising how much he’d drooped with the memories of his last year in service, and turned around. “So?” he asked with a plastered on smile.

“You don’t remember. You had hardly any money and you still bought me a dozen eggs that you knew I’d only set fire to.” Sherlock was looking excited now. He was almost grinning. “I didn’t know why before but I couldn’t delete it. I know now.”

John, again, didn’t really understand what Sherlock was talking about. He brought him a glass of whisky and put it on the coffee table before taking a seat next to him again, glancing down into his own drink. “Go on, then.”

“It was the first time I wanted to kiss you.”

John looked up and Sherlock felt his heart shatter. He’d dropped the pathetic excuse of a smile and there was some sort of raw emotion on his face. He couldn’t tell what it was – the best he could do was identify that it was sad. Well, he might not have been able to understand, but he could certainly fix that nonetheless. He took John’s glass and put it next to his on the table. Then, slowly enough that John could protest if he wanted to, he turned around in his seat and faced him.

“I understand that you don’t…” Sherlock hesitated. “That you aren’t…” He sighed and took John’s hands, taking comfort in how warmly and firmly they held his in return. “I know you’re not really the sort of person to… to _go very far_ on first dates, but… but technically this is the end of our second date and we’ve already gone a bit far once, before we’d even had any dates at all, so really, really you should.”

That sentence had gotten away from him slightly. He stared up at John, that floundering, panicking expression back on his face. John, eyebrows raised much too far towards his hairline than Sherlock’s liking decided they should be, chuckled softly.

“I have no idea what you just said.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed, flopping back onto the sofa. He could still hear John sniggering quietly as he closed his eyes and gathered his thoughts – again. Eventually he began his shuffling, letting go of John’s hands. He crossed his legs beneath him and turned to face John fully, pushing his companion’s legs until one was sat underneath him (John, after many shouts and protestations, told Sherlock he couldn’t actually cross his legs anymore because he wasn’t, in fact, five years old) and they were facing each other on the sofa. Just as they had been before, except this time they had less opportunities to turn away. Again, very slowly, Sherlock took John’s hands and pulled them in close, stroking the backs of his hands with his thumbs. Then he leaned forward, eyes closed, and kissed him. Only once and only very slowly, he kissed him.

He stayed hovering around his mouth, eyes closed, even after his lips had left John’s. They grazed over his where he hovered, and they shared the hot air John breathed. After a moment, when he was fully satisfied that John was hanging onto his every movement, he pecked his lips again.

“May I take you to bed?”

John took a very deliberate breath, nodding awkwardly. “Yes,” he whispered. Sherlock could hear that he’d been intending to speak aloud but hadn’t quite managed it. He tried again, a bit more confidently this time. “God, yes.”

Sherlock kissed him again, this time with his lips parted and dipping into John’s at every opportunity. John was a fantastic kisser – and, from the other end, John thought that Sherlock was, too, even if he was a little bit out of practice. He’d never experienced kissing like this before: kissing with a balance between lust and emotion. Not this sort of balance, at least. It was hard to pin down, as everything with Sherlock was, but both of them felt, somewhere, that it was more like sharing than giving or taking. The urgency was there but it was only bobbing along the bottom or the back of their minds. Even in the few serious relationships John had ever had, foreplay hadn’t been this sincere.

It started slowly, like it usually did. Sherlock got more excitable, more keen, and they did speed up a bit. It never got too fast, though, never frantic or hurried. Always just like two people enjoying the other’s company, even when Sherlock’s hand slid up John’s arm and held the back of his head, and when John’s hand rested on his thigh, stroking it slow, tiny circles.

Eventually, Sherlock had to pull back. John was going like he could go on forever (the expression on his face certainly said he missed having Sherlock so close) but he wasn’t so patient. He wanted John. He wanted to show him that this day didn’t have to be a depressing one, filled with sad memories and mourning. He wanted to show him that there was more to celebrate than all the friends he’d lost. It had to be today so he could remember it as today.

“Come,” he said softly, stroking the back of John’s head once again before he stood up. He kept hold of John with his other hand, pulling him up and gently tugging him along behind as he made his way to his bedroom.

John felt almost as if he was seeing the room for the first time. It was dark outside, but Sherlock didn’t put the main light on. Instead he held John’s hand over the bed until he took the hint and sat down, and then he put on one of the bedside lamps. It was nice, this lighting. Soft. All the sharp edges and dead animals looked much less threatening with the warm yellow light curving their edges and bringing life to their colours.

“I told you they were beautiful,” Sherlock murmured, and John had to wonder when he’d managed to sit next to him without him noticing the dip in the bed. He, instead of following John’s line of sight to the moths, was gazing at John. “You told me it was odd.”

“They look beautiful now,” John replied quietly, tearing his eyes from the walls and meeting Sherlock’s. He swallowed hard at the utter feeling in his face. This wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. It wasn’t the one he knew. Not yet.

Sherlock pressed their mouths together again. He gave more pressure this time, urging John back. He felt a little smile curve the other set of lips and then he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist, taking him with him as he lay back over the bed. Sherlock perched above him on all fours, elbows resting on either side of John’s head.

“Limits?” Sherlock breathed, kissing down John’s chin and along his jaw as he waited for a reply.

“Uh,” John grunted, finding it hard to think as Sherlock moved to his neck. “Oh, God… I don’t know.”

“Need some sort of idea, John. I don’t want to mess this up.” Sherlock brought one hand down and began unbuttoning John’s shirt.

John hummed. “You won’t.”

“I might,” Sherlock reminded him. He paused. “Have you done this before?”

John hummed again, thinking this time. “Been on your end. Done… half of this end. Sort of.”

 _Been fingered, then,_ Sherlock’s mind supplied. _Good enough._

“Have you?”

Sherlock looked up at him, something flashing in his eyes. “I have. Both sides. But it was a long time ago.”

“Then we’re practically on equal grounds.” He looked down to Sherlock. He stroked his hands through his hair. “All the way.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows twitched. “Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be gentle.” Sherlock’s cheeks tinted pink at the promise, and John smiled.

“I know.”

Sherlock tipped his head back down and kept undoing John’s buttons, starting the pecks again. He kissed straight down the centre of John’s chest, circled around his belly button, and followed the faint trail of hair leading down to his crotch. As soon as he reached the more sensitive skin John’s breathing picked up and he smiled to himself. After another little kiss he crawled back up the half-stripped body and returned to John’s mouth, leaving one hand down there.

As he diverted his pecks back to the pink lips beneath his the remaining hand cupped the soft bulge he could feel in John’s trousers and squeezed gently, beginning to rub. John groaned quietly into the kiss, his hips pushing up into Sherlock’s hand appreciatively. His hands went from around Sherlock’s back to his front, where he began pushing the jacket from his shoulders and undoing his shirt buttons. He reached the last button and Sherlock pulled his hand back to the zip of John’s trousers, where he released the one button there and pulled the zip down.

John had been expecting much more than for him to sit up and pull the clothes off his upper half, but he hadn’t been disappointed. He’d seen Sherlock’s chest before, just a couple of times, but it had never looked so attractive before tonight. He put it down to the soft lighting; it made him look so much warmer. It gave his skin a real tone instead of that beautifully pale but hard shade of cream it held normally. John smiled when Sherlock bent down again, expecting the kisses to return – and, again, was surprised. An arm dipped beneath him and lifted his torso up while the other pulled his open shirt off, and, just like that, they were topless and kissing and things felt much more realistic.

God knew how Sherlock’s earlier grinding hadn’t felt as serious as this.

After a moment of mutual gazing Sherlock returned to his mouth with enthusiasm, but his hands were focused down at John’s waistband, pushing and pulling with hands and then feet until he was left only in his underwear. John realised he’d been far too passive for most of the evening so far and as soon as he saw his partner thinking about rolling off and stripping his own trousers, he rolled them over and pushed them down himself. They landed an embarrassing distance across the room.

After that, the kissing got slower again. John settled over Sherlock, his erection getting heavy in his pants, and lined their crotches up. He thrust slowly against the groin beneath his own, savouring every spark of friction and every burst of heat he got. Just as he started to relax into the steady rhythm, Sherlock slid his hands down and over his hips. His fingers stroked and teased at the elastic of his underwear until, finally, he pushed it down and used a foot to hook it over John’s heels. John’s face blushed a very pretty shade of pink once the pants were gone, and Sherlock once again took control to roll them back over and pull his own boxers down.

He gave John a moment to adjust to the feeling of another cock laying over his. Only a moment, though, before he snuck his hand between them and wrapped it around John’s, stroking gently.

“You are the biggest fucking tease,” John breathed, closing his eyes and sucking a mark onto Sherlock’s neck. “I’ve been waiting all bloody day. Just do it.”

Sherlock chuckled quietly. He didn’t say anything back but he reached over into the top drawer of the cabinet by his bed and plucked out a bottle of lube and two condoms, laying the protection on the other side of the bed and rubbing a drop of the lubricant over two fingers.

“Legs,” he said softly, patting John’s thighs with his clean hand. John obediently spread his legs a bit further, gave Sherlock enough room to get his hand down there.

Get it down there he did, but he started very generously. At first it was just a slow rub against his hole, easing the tension and reminding him of what it felt like. All the while he kissed him in the hopes that the familiarity of his mouth would sooth the discomfort he was feeling. Because he _was_ feeling discomfort. Sherlock could feel it in his body and see it in his face. He hadn’t said ‘no’, yet, though, so he kept going, as gently as he could.

Once he’d softened him up a little he started pressing a little harder, concentrating with one finger instead of two. After a minute it began to press in, and then he held off with the rubbing and pushed firmly instead, getting all the way to the second knuckle with his index finger before he stopped. John was breathing very heavily and his readiness to respond to the kisses had flagged.

“Okay?” he breathed, kissing his cheek. John nodded with a faint hum.

“A minute,” he said softly, and Sherlock could feel him relaxing bit by bit. “Just… Been a while since—you know.”

“I know,” Sherlock replied, and this time he kissed his jaw. “Just let me know.”

It took them a long time to work up to three fingers. Sherlock was patient, going slowly and carefully and always stopping when John told him to. He hadn’t quite remembered where to find a prostate, so that had been a bit of an unexpected adventure for the both of them. Sherlock had first tried with just one finger, pushed it this way and that until John had pulled his hair a bit too hard at a particularly ungraceful jab, and then he’d decided to get himself a bit more room and try again.

Two fingers sliding smoothly, he crooked them again and pressed. John sighed.

“I really think you’re going to wrong way,” he muttered, shaking his head with an awfully tired look on his face.

Sherlock sighed. This really wasn’t how he’d wanted their first time to go. “Well, which way am I _supposed_ to go, then, doctor? You haven’t exactly been helping much.”

“I’m upside down, I don’t bloody know! Usually I have men the other way when I do that sort of thing.” John blushed the most Sherlock had ever seen him blush, and he couldn’t help but laugh.

“Right. Which way do you go when they’re bending over?”

“I… Um, down. Rub down.” He paused and then grunted awkwardly. “No, you idiot. _I_ rub down, but I’m the wrong way up.”

“So… So I rub up,” Sherlock concluded. He wriggled around a bit more. “Bloody hell, John, my fingers don’t _bend_ that way!”

Right then, Sherlock’s knuckles passed over him in _that way_ and John finally moaned in a breathless way that didn’t say ‘fucking ow’.

Sherlock’s head snapped up and he stared at John in disbelief before repeating the same movement down to the right millimetre. John did it again, a little stronger this time. He grinned at Sherlock.

“There it is,” he mumbled, pulling his hair again but this time to bring him down and kiss him. Sherlock rubbed over the spot again and he moaned gently into the kiss. “Alright, that’s enough playing.”

“Mm, you might get sore before I finish,” Sherlock muttered shamelessly.

He smirked and then went on, continuing to squeeze a third finger in. He had to pause for a while longer this time while John got used to it, and, where the others had taken just a minute or less of slow pumps for the burn to fade away, three fingers took a little longer. Sherlock was getting incredibly impatient, especially now that he knew how to make it feel good and each moan John gave him wound him up a little tighter.

Finally, after two more coats of lube for both of them, John was ready. _Finally._

The condom slipped all around in Sherlock’s hands. He had to open it with his teeth in the end and even then the thing would hardly go on right. John sat there and laughed at him and, eventually, he had to turn away and do it while John’s little giggles weren’t discouraging his shy erection. After what felt like an eternity he settled over John again, one hand still down between them to help line his cock up with John’s arse.

John had gotten awfully breathless again. So had Sherlock, just from the faint brush of the head of his cock over John’s hole.

“Can you hurry up?” John teased, sliding a hand down over Sherlock’s bum and pulling gently.

Sherlock smiled. “Bossy.” He kissed John gently and then rested their foreheads together. “This’ll be very different to that. I’ll go slowly.”

John nodded eagerly and pecked his lips. Sherlock took that as his cue and, taking a firmer hold on his cock and moaning softly, he pushed. And then he pushed a bit harder, and a bit further. And then he pushed just a little bit more, probably more of a rock than a push that time, just to check that everything was alright. John’s breathing had gotten awfully laboured and he was staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes.

“John?” he asked quietly. He had to close his eyes as his brain overloaded with the sensations splashing out from his cock.

“God,” John groaned, squeezing tight around Sherlock. Sherlock gasped. “God, that’s… Shit.”

“Are you alright?” he forced, tucking his face into his neck and kissing.

“Yes,” John moaned as Sherlock accidentally rocked against just the right place. “Yes, I… Keep going.”

Sherlock didn’t need telling twice. He pulled out slightly and then thrust back in harder, forcing as kindly as he could the next few inches of his cock deep inside John with a deep groan. “Oh, John,” he whined. He couldn’t quite stop himself from rocking again, feeling the tight heat squeeze his cock in all the right places, and eventually John stopped grunting out of discomfort and started grunting out of pleasure. Sherlock recognised that it was around the time he dipped his groin down a bit, angled his cock up towards the place he’d found John’s prostate.

He was only halfway deep in John at that point, but it was enough for both of them. John moaned afresh every few thrusts, as Sherlock, having identified the magic spot, was careful not to abuse it too much. He knew things like that, recognised which places John liked and how, exactly, to get to them, so it was no difficulty for him to thrust up once and then straight a few times and then up once more. He went slowly, pressing kisses along John’s chest and up his neck and over his face and anywhere he could reach. He only just managed to stop himself from saying ‘thank you’.

After a few minutes of the slow, comfortable rhythm they’d set up between them, John’s hand fell from where they’d been clutching Sherlock’s back and dipped between them. Sherlock wondered for moment what he was doing, but John’s expression told him everything in the way the crease between his eyebrows softened slightly and he moaned again. And how he could feel him clenching around his cock. And, of course, the way his arm kept moving. Sherlock’s cock was fucking him slowly and deeply and John was… John was wanking.

Sherlock groaned and couldn’t help but go a bit faster.

“Oh, God, Sherlock,” John breathed, holding him close and slowing his hand on his cock. “Fuck. _Yes._ ”

Sherlock moaned again at the breathless cries in his ear and responded in kind. It was a stream of nonsensical curses and noises but, somehow, he had no control over them. He couldn’t stop them.

“John, oh, tight… _Oh_ , God, you’re so… tight around me.” He took John’s lips into a hard kiss and thrust faster and harder still, causing John to moan embarrassingly loud and dig his nails into his back.

“Did I… Did I ever tell you how much I love dirty talk?” he gasped, deliberately clenching around Sherlock, who thought for a moment as he moved.

“I’m…” He hesitated a moment, in his thrusts and in his voice, and then spluttered on. “Inside you. With… with my penis.”

He stopped. John stared up at him uncertainly. “You’re inside me… with your penis?”

Again, Sherlock’s brain stuttered.

“Please don’t say eggs again,” John joked. He pulled on Sherlock’s bum and pecked his mouth. “Just… Okay. Don’t worry. Keep going, keep… Quiet.” He laughed. “Please, keep going.”

Sherlock could hardly look at John, but he obeyed, forcing his mind away from that shameful slipup and concentrating on finding the prostate again.

Soon enough they were both on the edge again. John’s arm was moving intermittently and he was clearly trying not to go first. Sherlock’s face was red and his features were all tensed as he pushed in, again and again, each one a wrench to his balls but his willpower too strong to let it get to him.

“Together,” John whined, eyes closed now as Sherlock nipped at his neck.

“Please,” Sherlock cried, thrusting harder still. “I’ll follow you. I… Yes.”

John’s arm started moving fast again as he pumped his cock with renewed fervour, finally racing towards the climax he’d been aching for. A few seconds later his muscles were pulling tight around Sherlock and he came with a long groan, spurting white ropes all up both his and Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock followed soon after, thrusting hard once, twice, three times into John before he stopped and went rigid with a deep moan. He thrust a few more times after that, each time a bit slower, before finally pulling out and collapsing on his front next to John.

Both lay there panting for a few minutes, enjoying the warm skin pressed against theirs and basking in the spikes of orgasm still running through their veins.

“Inside me with your penis… Jesus.” John snorted and clapped his hands to his mouth so that his laughter wouldn’t be too loud.

“I panicked,” Sherlock growled. He turned his face away with a huff. “Shut up.”

John sat up. He took a tissue from the bedside table and wiped down his front (and his back) before rolling over. He was smaller than Sherlock but was still quite proud of how fully he managed to spoon him, one arm sliding around his waist and the other over his shoulder to hug his chest.

“Sorry,” he said softly, kissing his shoulder. There was silence for a few seconds. “Condom,” he reminded him gently.

Sherlock sighed. “Tissue.”

“Already done.”

“No, give it to me.”

“Oh.” John passed the tissue to Sherlock, who tied the condom and tossed it, rather disgustingly, onto the floor before wiping himself down.

“I don’t know how it happened,” Sherlock muttered.

John almost interrupted him in his eagerness to say, “Don’t worry about it, Sherlock. Please. I don’t mind. It was just… funny.”

“Perhaps we should have waited.”

“No. Don’t be silly.”

There was silence for a few more seconds. John spoke first.

“Would you have wanted to wait?”

“No.”

“Then it’s good we didn’t.”

John rubbed Sherlock’s stomach gently. This time it was Sherlock that broke the peaceful silence.

“All I wanted was to give you something else to remember for this day,” he said, almost inaudibly.

John kissed his shoulder again. “I won’t be forgetting that any time soon, if that’s what you were after.”

Sherlock huffed. “No, John. I meant… I meant…”

It seemed the word wouldn’t quite come out. Luckily, John was on hand to help. “You meant like an anniversary.”

“Yes.”

John got up on all fours and moved until he was lying face-to-face with Sherlock. He smiled slightly and then moved forward, landing a sweet his to his lips.

“Well, then,” he murmured, moving in close. “Happy anniversary.”

**Author's Note:**

> My AO3 now has a [Tumblr](http://theandersaur.tumblr.com) blog, for any that are interested in other fics, or have messages, or anything else I haven't thought of yet. Woohoo!


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